


Parts, No Labor

by corvidae9



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Dresden OCs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-01
Updated: 2007-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29484219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: An afternoon in the life of Mike the Mechanic. (Dresden Files fic!)
Kudos: 3





	Parts, No Labor

**Author's Note:**

> As of _Proven Guilty_ , we knew two things about Harry Dresden's mechanic:
> 
> 1) His name is Mike
> 
> 2) He keeps the Blue Beetle running.
> 
> WAY more than enough to expand upon. So, without further ado, please allow me to give you a complete figment of my imagination as a birthday present for knitmeapony, back in the simple days when life was all about the fandom as an escape from reality. Thanks to sadsadmonkey for the covert beta. Canon-compliant through _Proven Guilty_ with no overt spoilers.

Miguel scowled at the hunk of metal at hand, wondering how the hell that tall bastard managed to beat the crap out of this thing on a regular basis. Rancheras played over an undercurrent of static from an old system hooked up in the corner under a prominent poster of the Virgin Mary that doubled as a calendar more than three years out of date. A Chevy that had been elevated to a state higher than any mere 'vehicle' was jacked up two feet off of the ground. Bright, shiny yellow, dripping with chrome, and likely a better dancer than Miguel would ever be, it made the torn-up Beetle ten feet away look like more than a heap of shit than it might otherwise have on its own.

" _Pobre chingadera_ ," muttered Miguel, running his grease-stained hand over the gaping, ragged hole in the hood that matched the one in the boot over the engine. "'Mano, one day you're going to have to tell me what the hell does that sort of damage." His English was excellent, flavored only by the neighborhoods in which he'd come up, all much like the one he lived in now.

The gringo said with a shit-eating grin, "You don't want to know, Mike."

Considering how he'd gotten to know Harry Dresden, Miguel was pretty sure he was right. He crossed himself absently and muttered, " _Dios nos libre_."

" _Si, por favor!_ ," came a young woman's voice, followed by the girl in question-- his pride and joy, the apple of his eye and the cause of death someday for any man that even looked at her funny. His Marisol, all of sixteen and set and determined to become an aircraft engineer, but only if she couldn't be a mechanic like dad. "Save us all from the _tamborazo_ , Papa," she said unkindly, flicking the switch on the radio until something resembling rock en Español came out of the speakers. To Miguel, it was noise-- a bunch of long-haired kids with too much time to whine about things they'd never experienced-- but he'd change it back later. Better than that Britney Spears bullshit all the other kids her age were listening to, he supposed. A protest came muffled from the mechanic in the greasy coveralls whose foot had been tapping in time with the repetitive tophat crashes of the ranchera music from under the yellow bomb, but it was an idle complaint. Everyone ignored him.

"Hey Marisol," said Harry, doing a pretty decent job of not making it sound like 'Mary-soul' even though he was still looking at his car as though it were a relative in intensive care. "How's school going?"

"Awesome," she said, stepping up, crunching into a huge, red apple, and talking through her mouthful. "Straight A's. I'm foreman in autoshop this semester, too."

To be fair, Miguel was also too busy assessing the state of the not-so-Blue Beetle to notice what Marisol was wearing before he slung an arm around her shoulders, made more difficult now that she was just as tall as he was. At five foot six, it wasn't saying much for him, but this was his baby here.

"That's my _mija_ ," he said, bursting with pride and well aware of the fact that she might not be standing there at all if it weren't for Harry. "She's captain of the-- _pero que chingado es esto_?!"

Marisol's outfit consisted of some sort of top that would have fit her snugly four years ago, and pants so low he could see her hipbones, which were only visible since her coveralls were unzipped, arms tied around her waist. She had the nerve to roll her eyes and stand hipshot, only making it worse.

"What? It's hot!"

Harry looked over, his eyes went wide and Miguel was sure he was going to have to kill him in the split-second that it took the gringo to conspicuously cast his eyes downward and away. Good man, that Harry. Apparently, Miguel telegraphing bloody murder at her had the desired effect without his having to rant further. Marisol sighed, shoved the apple into her mouth, and held it between her teeth, still managing to look supremely put out as she pulled the arms up, slipped into them, and zipped them up.

"Tadah!" she said next, though muffled through the apple, it sounded like "NUHNAH!"

"You can look now, Mr. Dresden. I'm decent again. God forbid I show my body on the street," said, Marisol, going on in the fine tradition of snotty teenagers everywhere, overachievers or not, "I'm the wrong religion and past the traditional age for a burqua but dad's looking into it, did you know?"

Miguel couldn't help but level a gentle slap upside her head.

" _Ya. Basta,_ " he said, cocking his head at the Beetle. "Get in and start it."

"But I want to work on the Chevy!" she whined. The voice under the yellow bomb rumbled in Spanish and she cast a dirty look in the direction of the protruding feet. "I can do it, you know."

Miguel was about to tell her to stop her goddamn whining and get in, because as much as he loved that girl, she had a stubborn streak worse than her mother's, God rest her, but Harry spoke first.

"Come on, Marisol. This one's more of a challenge," he said, holding out the keys. "Who knows, I mean, maybe you _can't_ fix it." Marisol glared, snatched them, and opened the door.

"Aw, come on! You don't even have real seats, Mr. Dresden!" she sat carefully on what passed for the driver's seat, and leaned out of the open door, speaking earnestly. "Listen. Do yourself a favor and give this car a decent burial, go down to Stan's and buy a little used rice-rocket and be done with it."

" _Marisol_ ," Miguel growled and the teenager rolled her eyes again.

"Fine. Fine. If it even starts." She grimaced exaggeratedly as she turned the key but the old engine wheezed and spat and turned over.

"Not quite a lost cause, right?" Harry said with pride, rocking back on his heels.

"Mmph," grumbled Marisol, though she said nothing else.

"I hate to say this, Harry," said Miguel, "but she might be right." He knew what it was like to have something you couldn't bear to part with, and despite Harry's skill, Miguel knew he didn't generally have much in the way of money. That was something Miguel knew all about, too. Miguel didn't want to be cruel-- it was just that sometimes, it was time to let go.

"Shh!" said Marisol, preempting Harry's response. "I'm trying to listen here!"

Harry actually laughed and leaned (low) to mutter, "I think we got her."

Miguel nodded and muttered back, "You had her at _challenge_."

The engine cut again and Marisol popped out.

"Is there any hope, doctor?" Harry asked gravely. Marisol picked up on the joke and ran with it.

"She loves you even though you done her wrong, Mr. Dresden," she answered just as gravely. "Give us the weekend and a lot of money you could use to buy a real car, and we'll fix it."

" _Marisol_!" Miguel growled again. "Don't listen to her Harry. Standard fee - parts, no labor. Tuesday be alright?"

"No, no," said Harry. "I--"

"Don't you start with me," said Miguel. "We owe you."

"Aw, man, you've paid me back ten times over," Harry said, running one hand over his head and looking embarrassed. _Good people_ , Miguel repeated in his head.

"I said don't start with me. Take it or leave it, that's my final offer," said Miguel, brooking no argument.

"But if you want to slip me cash on the side," Marisol piped in, flashing a winning grin, "I won't argue."

" _Muchacha!_ " said Miguel, aiming another _thwap_ that she ducked this time with plenty of clearance.

"What?!" she answered, brimming with feigned innocence. "I have to think about my college fund!"

" _You_ don't worry about that," Miguel said emphatically, and he meant it. The shop had done real well since Harry had come around all those years ago, and whatever he couldn't get up front, he'd find a way for. No way his girl wasn't going to school while he was breathing. Besides as long as Igor over there stuck around--

"You," he redirected to Harry. "You got a ride home, or do you need me to drop you off?"

"It's ok," said Harry, shaking his head. "I've got a ride. Can I use your phone?"

"Yeah, of course," said Miguel, tugging out his cel phone. "Just press--" Miguel stopped when he caught the look on Harry's face, suddenly remembered, and thumped Harry's arm.

"You know where to find the shop phone. Damn thing's still rotary."

Harry smiled, mumbled his thanks, and went to make use of it.

"He's a weirdo, dad," reflected Marisol calmly.

" _Tu te me cayas_ ," said Miguel. "If it weren't for him--"

"Not the bad kind!" she protested, crossing her arms. "I'm just saying." She circled her temple with one finger in the universal signal for 'mentally unsound'.

"Maybe so, _mija_ ," said Miguel, rubbing his short, dark beard with a mischievous grin. "You would know."

"Ugh!" was her affronted reply. "I'm gonna go dig through the pile of spare Beetle parts in the back, _dad_ ," she said, and Miguel could see she was failing to properly hide a smile. "'Cause that's the crazy people work around here."

Bemused, Miguel watched her mock stomp until she slipped out the back door.

"Kids are great," said Harry at his side again.

"I'd say you should have a few of your own and find out, but I like you too much," said Miguel, and Harry grinned, but looked away.

"Other people's are better," Harry said. Miguel didn't miss the flinch. He didn't know much about Harry but apparently, he'd hit a sore spot.

"Your ride on its way?" said Miguel by way of changing the subject.

"Yeah, she was in the neighborhood. Be here any second."

They had exchanged small talk for no more than a few more minutes when a motorcycle pulled up -- shiny; seemed like a good piece of equipment at first glance, but then bikes weren't necessarily Miguel's thing. Someone smaller than his Marisol cut the engine, popped the stand, and climbed off, tugging her helmet off in the process and revealing a sweet face and a blond ponytail.

Harry waved and grinned as she approached. "Hey, thanks Murph."

Miguel was in the process of a knowing wink-and-nudge, when he stopped short, brow furrowed.

" _That's_ Murphy?" he said.

"In the flesh," said the diminutive blond, who from up close was still just as sweet, only radiating a clear sense of being someone dangerous to start shit with. She offered a hand. "You must be Miguel."

"Mike's good." He took her hand and shook it, shaking his own head while he was at it. "Damn, woman, from the stories I hear, I thought you'd be six feet tall."

Murphy shot a look at a grimacing Harry, though she smiled all the same. "Funny, I was thinking the same about you."  
  
There was a beat of silence before Miguel burst out laughing, thumping Harry on the arm again.

"I like her, man. You guys want to stay for a beer or something?"

"Oh! No, thank you, Mike," said Murphy, eyes darting to Harry and back. "I've got a shift tonight."

"Yeah, and I've got a job to get back to," said Harry, and Miguel could swear he looked a little pink around the ears. "Which means I'll be calling my brother or hoping the trail follows a convenient train line."

"Just 'till Tuesday, man," said Miguel. "We'll have her back to you in no time."

"Thanks, Mike. Appreciate it," said Harry shaking his hand.

"Any time, Harry," said Miguel genuinely.

"Good meeting you," Murphy said, already beginning to move away. "Dresden, you coming?"

"Yeah. See you later, Igor," called Harry, only answered by a grunt that seemed to satisfy everyone in question.

Miguel could hear him muttering about 'Hells bells, in a hurry?' as they strapped helmets on and got situated on the bike, and decided that he was not enough of someone's meddling _tia_ to say any damn thing as he watched them ride off.

"Papi!" shouted Marisol from the back door. "There's a red hood and like, three rightside doors, but no boot."

" _Gracias, mija_!" Miguel called back, turning to knock gently on the side of the Chevy. "You hear that, Igor? Up for a trip out to the junkyard tonight?"

A relatively normal-looking hand stuck out from under the car formed into a thumbs-up, and Miguel nodded, satisfied, no longer noticing the fact that the hand was somewhat greenish in tint and could possibly be described as 'a little scaly'. It'd been years since that week from hell, after all. Igor was like part of the family, warts and all.

"Ok!" declared Miguel, moving back to the stereo to find the oldies station. "There's something nobody can bitch and moan about." The strains of old school Motown began to waft up through the shop and Miguel began working the hinges of the Beetle's hood to the Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, knowing all was well as he heard Marisol's voice singing along over the clatter of metal outside, loudly if not well.

...Damn. Maybe he should get that girl some voice lessons or something. 


End file.
